


Anders' Dirty Secret

by Kauri



Series: NSFW Tumblr Prompts [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Multi, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8165687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kauri/pseuds/Kauri
Summary: Anders has a secret to tell Hawke. About his night with another warrior. One with light eyes, and dark skin, and limbs laced with lyrium.





	

“I slept with Fenris.” Anders blurts out, and winces, bracing for whatever terrible denunciation is sure to follow. Several heartbeats pass with no reaction, and he forces his eyes open, concerned. Perhaps his confession has actually given Hawke a stroke.

But, no. Hawke’s standing there, inscrutable. Wearing the nearly expressionless mask that he uses when dealing with unsavory Chantry clerics, or that hot-headed Templar Knight-Captain.

There could be anything building behind those dark hazel eyes. Rage. Disgust. The Champion has learned his own brand of diplomacy well. It did not come naturally -- not for a man who wears his emotions so close to the surface -- but now, no one can ever tell what Hawke’s thinking when he doesn’t want them to.

The silence drags on, grating.

_ “Say something.” _ Anders finally grits out.

Hawke bursts out laughing.

“Words.” Anders can feel his face burn. He must be bright red. “Say words.”

Hawke has a booming -- and usually infectious --  laugh. Deep and resonant like the roll of thunder. Like everything else about the man, it can take over a room. His laugh has always been one of the things Anders liked best about the Champion. Now though, he regards the man’s unbridled hilarity -- Hawke’s laughing so hard he’s nearly wheezing -- and wonders if stabbing him is either unprofessional as a healer, or beneath him as a Mage.

It wouldn’t be too difficult to hide the body. He certainly knows people.

It’s quite a while before Hawke calms down enough to actually speak, and when he finally does he keeps his arms wrapped around his sides, as though trying to physically stave off the laughter. “You…  _ what?” _ He snorts, nearly goes off again.  _ “Why?!” _

“We were drunk.”  Anders admits, flushing. “And it was before...  _ between... _ all this.” He gestures, the small motion is not enough to capture the magnitude their time together, then apart, then together again. Their reconnection is still so new, and Anders finds himself more vulnerable and prickly than he’d thought. He takes a deep breath, and gathers the tattered remains of his dignity around him. “I thought you should know.”

“That you fucked Fenris.” Hawke smiles that toothy, slightly lopsided grin. “Or did he…?”

“Er…” Anders fidgets and mumbles “Mostly me.” in a voice low enough that he hopes Hawke can’t actually hear.

Hawke covers his eyes with his hand, spiraling back into hilarity. “Oh sweet Maker!” He laughs. “What I would give to have seen that!”

It’s a casual statement, not ribald. Yet Anders swallows hard, imagining Hawke in the corner of the room, sprawling long-legged and arrogant in the big desk chair. Watching, as Anders kneels behind Fenris, lowering the Elf’s breeches, and easing himself into--

Hawke is staring at him when he opens his eyes. The humor is still there, glinting brightly, but it is edged with something darker. Not rage, or disgust.

_ Hunger. _

Hawke gives him a calculating look before his eyes drop, and Anders curses silently. Mage robes are useless for hiding boners.

Hawke chuckles, the sound low and from the back of his throat. “Thirsty for Warrior cock, aren’t you?”

Anders takes an indignant breath. “I’m not --” And is stopped short when Hawke glides his palm against the front of Anders’ robes, briefly trapping his erection against his thigh, before pulling away. Anders’ cock springs back up, harder than ever.  _ “You --” _

Hawke steps closer, and Anders has to brace himself not to instinctively step away from the much larger man. Hawke bends down, whiskers brushing against Anders’ ear. “Tell me everything.” The sound is wedged halfway between a growl and a rumbling purr. “Every world, every touch. Every  _ taste.” _

Anders moans as the Warrior drops to his knees, and begins to ruck up the skirts of his robe. “Maker, Hawke… I…” He scrabbles wildly for an excuse, but the clinic is empty and Hawke’s breath is hot against his thighs, and over the tip of his cock, and --

_ “Talk.”  _  Hawke growls and presses a teasing kiss against his bare shaft.

He yelps, and digs his fingers into Hawke’s shoulders. Grateful that the Champion isn’t in his armor. “We were drunk.” Anders says.

“You said that.” Hawke reminds between kisses. “Who started it?”

“I did… I think.” Anders gasps. Each touch of Hawke’s lips against his length makes him buck his hips, a little. “We were… arguing… and I followed him to his rooms. He was -- well, you know what he’s like. I was so angry, I grabbed him. And then… we weren’t arguing any more.”

“Did you kiss him?”

“Yes.” Anders shudders as a hand wraps around him, squeezing gently, but not stroking. “Hawke...”

“Tongue?”

_ “Please.”  _  His hips lift.

Hawke chuckles. “It was a question. I wasn’t offering.” He draws a single finger up Anders’ length from base to tip. “Did he suck your cock?”

“No… I was the one...” Anders swallows, remembering. “He… we were on the bed… just… kissing… and then…” He shakes his head.  “Hawke, please.”

“What did he do?” A single, tickling kiss upon the flushed head of Ander’s cock. Then, another. “What did he say?”

“Open your mouth, Mage.”

*

“Open your mouth, Mage.” Fenris hisses, voice rough. “I am done hearing you talk.” He fumbles, one handed at his breeches, nearly tearing at the fabric.

They’ve hardly spoken in the last few minutes, only kissed. Or, not even kissed. It was more like trying to press bruises against each other’s skin, hard and desperate.

Anders makes a displeased noise, at the feel of Fenris’ cock dragging against his lips. The tip is already salty. He opens his mouth, meaning to refuse, or  _ bite,  _ but only a soft moan escapes him before Fenris angles his hips, pressing in.

“More.” Fenris commands bruskly, sliding deeper. “More.” Anders tips his head back, letting his throat relax. Even so, Fenris nearly bottoms out. The Elf groans, settling for a moment before his hips start to slide back and forth.

Anders isn’t sure how long Fenris fucks his mouth, one leg thrown across his chest, the other straddling his head. A hand grips at his forehead, holding him steady. He doesn’t gag. Either Fenris has perfect control, even in this state of half-inebriated lust, or the drink has dulled his own senses enough that he’s able to easily swallow most of the Elf’s -- impressively long, and beautifully formed -- length.

Fenris groans above him, a sound that warms him to his very core. He raises a hand, intending… what?... but the Elf bats it away.

He sucks hard. He can taste the musky salt of precome and flicks his tongue against Fenris’ slit, seeking more.

Fenris is offering him praise in a half-desperate, breathless voice. In response, he cups his hands around Fenris’ buttocks, trying to pull him deeper, revelling in the Elf’s startled cry. The grinding-thrust of Fenris’ hips starts to stutter.

Amidst the ragged litany of unintelligible Tevene, he thinks the Elf calls him beautiful…

*

“Did he spend himself down your throat?” Hawke wonders.

“I… Hawke, _ please.”  _ Anders moans. The grip at his base keeps him from thrusting forward much. Hawke presses another teasing, maddening kiss against the head of his cock, and he whines. “I’m so hard…  Please, just a little…  _ Please… _ your mouth.”

Hawke tightens his grip, a little. “Did he?”

Anders shakes his head, restlessly. “Not…  _ no…”  _ The word is a breath of memory. “I… he... he took me in his arse.”

“Mmmm?” Hawke makes a pleased sound, and licks, just once, across the tip of Anders’ cock. The startled gasp his tongue elicits, is eclipsed by the sound Anders makes when Hawke slides his fingers up the Mage’s thigh, behind his balls, and presses up against his hole.

_ “Yes, _ Hawke, please!” Anders wriggles, pressing himself against Hawke’s fingers, seeking, pressure, and penetration, and -

“Keep talking.” Hawke commands. His voice sounds a little strained, and Anders can hear the telltale slap of flesh-on-flesh as Hawke begins to touch himself with his free hand.

“Maker, Hawke…”

The Champion’s fingers tease in a far too gentle circle.  _ “Talk.” _

*

Anders gasps for air explosively, gagging, almost belatedly. For a moment he’s still so lost in the taste and texture of Fenris against his tongue, that he’s only half aware of the gauntleted hands that scratch up his thighs, hiking his robes up enough to bare his erection.

Fenris grips him briefly, only enough to keep him steady as the Elf turns, and positions himself above Anders. He can see the muscle’s at the small of Fenris’ back flex as he lowers himself. The sound Anders makes is hardly coherent, barely even a word. But there’s enough protest in it that Fenris pauses, and looks back at him, face flushed, and eyes dark.

“There’s…  _ don’t…” _ Anders pants, trying to focus on words alone. “Oil… I have some oil… under the mattress.”

The smile Fenris gives him is the first he’s ever seen from the Elf. It lacks all the arrogance and easy humor from the smile he misses most… but the  _ sharpness _ in Fenris’ expression, the steel… Anders finds himself responding with an alarming ferocity, and can’t stop his hips from thrusting a bit, into the air.

Fenris leans over, fumbling under the mattress for the vial, and presenting his bare arse in the process -- when did the he managed to take off his breeches?. The sight is too tempting. Anders licks his thumb, and reaches, pressing past the momentary, clenching resistance of Fenris’ hole, and sinking in, down to the first knuckle.

The Elf swears raggedly as Anders works him, pushing deeper, carefully stretching. The fingers of his other hand trace the outlines of the lyrium tattoos on his buttocks. Fenris snarls something at him, but doesn’t push away, and Ander’s pulls out, pressing in again almost at once, with  _ two _ fingers, curling them expertly towards Fenris’ prostate.

Anders’ cock throbs eagerly as Fenris clamps down tightly on his fingers, back arching. Fenris rolls his hips, against the intrusion, shifting the position carefully, until he’s facing Anders, pinning the taller man between his thighs.

The oil drips, shockingly cold against the heated flesh of Anders’ cock. Fenris pumps his hand, once, twice over the slickened length, spreading the oil.

“Enough.” The Elf hisses and pulls back again, lining himself over Anders’ erection.

He faces Anders this time. The Mage has little thought for what the unexpected change in position might mean. Fenris keeps his eyes open as he sinks down, watching intently, rolling his hips until the angle shifts and their two bodies begin to fit together.

Ander’s groans raggedly as the Elf takes him. Fenris is slow about it, drawing out the initial penetration, savoring the high-bright pleasure each inch brings, until he’s fully seated, balls pressed against Anders’ belly. He grinds down, pressing hard, and a little pre-come drips from the tip of his cock, catches in the small trail of hair below Anders’ belly button.

*

Hawke chuckles, breath warm against Anders’ cock. “You haven’t said anything but ‘Oh, Maker’, for the past minute.” He wiggles the fingers buried inside the Mage. “Am I distracting you?”

_ “Hawke.” _ Anders says instead. The word half a whine. His hips flex desperately. “I can’t --  _ please!” _

Three long strokes up the length of Ander’s cock. Hawke smiles, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt you this hard before. Does this turn you on so much? Him? Me?”

_ “Both! _ Maker, the both of you -- ” Anders tangles his hands in the Champions hair, trying to pull his head down, trying to buck up and into his mouth. “Hawke, I am _ begging  _ you--”

“Tell me.” The Champion presses deeper with his fingers. There’s something pleading in his voice, less teasing. “Tell me what fucking Fenris was like.”

* 

For a while, Fenris doesn't really move, just keeps him deeply seated. Clenching and unclenching. Pulsating his inner walls around Anders. The sensation is electrifying, and deeply intimate. And though Fenris’ cock is distracting -- it  _ is _ at eye-level, after all -- he finds that it is Fenris’ gaze that draws the majority of his attention. 

His expression is still hard, and sharp, dark brows pinched over large, hazel-green eyes. But there’s something in those eyes that’s brittle. More glass than steel. Something hurt. Lost. Visible even beneath the wine and the lust.

Anders blinks, reaching out tentatively, drawn to the sudden openness and fragility of Fenris’ gaze. But the Elf plucks his hand from the air, brushing fingers to lips in such a quick, light kiss that is steals Ander’s breath. The sudden tenderness, a shock amidst all the gruffness.

“Fenris...”

But the moment shifts the instant Fenris moves his hips, disappearing in a bright rush of pleasure. And all Anders can think of is  _ tight, _ and _ hot, _ and  _ more. _

A growl. “You’re bigger than I thought, Mage.”

His own hips raise, back arching against the sensation.  _ “Maker, _ Fenris.”

The Elf is still clenching, squeezing himself around Anders’ cock in slow, strong pulses. Fenris rocks his hips, grinding down for a moment before rising, drawing himself up along Anders’ length before pressing down again. Up, and down. Up, and down. Again, and again. Fucking himself with Anders’ cock at a slow, and measured pace.

Anders doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Each time he reaches to stroke Fenris’ erection, the Elf growls at him. So he ends up touching himself instead, running his hands up the length of his torso, undoes the fastening of his robes, and opens them, pinching at the points of his own nipples.

Fenris traces Anders’ touch. Tips of his gauntlets scratching gently against Anders’ ribs. Blunted metal slides through the tangled mat of cinnamon colored hair that spots his chest, thick at the juncture of his sternum, but patchy over his pectorals.

Anders catches Fenris’ hand, pulling insistently, and strangely, the Elf does not protest. He works the small fastenings on the inside of Fenris’ wrists free, and tugs off the gauntlets. First one, and then the other. It’s a shock to realize, he’s never seen the Warrior’s hands bare before.

The tattoos don’t stop at Fenris’ wrists, they spread lazily over the backs of his hands, and curl over the knuckles of his index, and middle finger. The fingers themselves are long, and graceful, but blunt. Like the rest of the Elf.

Fenris’ breath catches when Anders leans forward, and pulls the two marked fingers of his left hand into his mouth. Shocked into stillness, Fenris makes a low rumble of approval, that grows, somehow, louder, and deeper as he sucks, and sucks.

Anders’ hands wander again. Curling around Fenris’ knees, drawing the warrior tighter against him, before trailing up the straining thighs. He brushes his thumbs hesitantly right along the soft spring of pale hair between Fenris’ legs, around the base of his rigid cock, and down his balls. His thumbs circle the shape of each testicle.

The Elf arches against his touch, cock twitching.

“So good…” Anders pants, hardly recognizing his own voice. “Fenris… it’s so good...”

*

Hawke groans. A sound almost a full octave lower than Fenris is capable of making, and Ander’s blinks, momentarily disoriented.

His cock his leaking heavily. He can feel it. Hawke’s thumb, restless against the slippery slit. He bucks forward into the larger man’s hand, caught between the sensations of Hawke’s broad, calloused hand, and the tighter, warmer clench of Fenris’ ass.

“So good…” He moans.

“Anders,  _ please.” _

The Champion asks for nothing. Ever.

It is not through selfishness or callous regard for others. It is born of the necessity of burden. It is born of a man who must do what must be done, who never flinches, never pauses. He  _ takes,  _ it is true. But he  _ gives _ just as well and as easily.

Still... he never  _ asks. _

The raw  _ need _ in Hawke’s voice has Anders’ spiraling away, hips rutting in a staccato. Quick and sharp to the pace of a remembered melody.

_ “Yes!”  _  He gasps. He has no idea if he’s even coherent at this point, but the rest of the story tumbles out of him in a rush, broken by his own gasping breaths and the sharp grind of his hips.

*

“Yes… Fenris,  _ please!” _ His thumbs circle each ball insistently. “Please, I want you to --”

Fenris comes violently, cock jerking as he spills, untouched, into the empty air. There’s a moment that’s almost akin to surprise, before the Elf shudders, hips grinding down hard, back bowing. “Anders!”

_ Not Mage. _ Anders thinks blurrily.  _ My name. Maker, he -- _

There’s a warm splash against Anders’ chest, and his eyes snap shut as Fenris clamps down around him, so hard it’s almost painful. Little orgasmic aftershocks that squeeze him in deep pulses.

Fenris reaches down, drags the tips of his bare fingers through the puddles of come on Anders’ chest, before brining those fingers back to the Mage’s lips, and very, very slowly, pressing them into his open mouth.

“Yes!” Anders groans, bucking up.  _ “Yesyesyesyesyes--” _

*

Hawke seals his mouth around Ander’s cock as he comes. Sucks at the tip as the mage folds over him, spilling with a broken cry. Hawke swallows twice before Ander’s finishes coming, and bobs up and down, working until Anders jerks beneath him, oversensitive. Overwrought.

He remembers the way Fenris had stroked his cheek, gently, just the once...

Anders feels Hawke’s arms come around him, supporting him. Legs too shaky to bear weight. He can feel the Champion’s erection brush against his thigh, insistent, and wonders if Hawke will push him to the floor, and hike his robes back up over his hips. But, unbelievably, Hawke pulls away.

“Did you mean it?” Hawke asks, voice so thick with desire it’s almost a rasp. “What you said?”

“Did I..? What?” Anders gasps, unsteady.

“That you want to watch me fuck Fenris.” Hawke’s cock rubs against his leg as though the thought alone might send him over the edge. “That you wanted  _ him _ to… The three of us.”

“All three?” He blinks.

_ Maker,  _ what  _ has _ he been saying?

“Did you mean it?” Hawke growls insistently in his ear.

“I… yes. Yes. I want you both.”

Hawke looms over him, suddenly, hand pumping vigorously against his cock. “Tell -- say it!”

“I want to fuck you both.” Anders pants, “I want the three of us --”

Hawke comes with a roar. It’s so sudden, Anders doesn’t even have time to open his mouth. The first splash hits his cheek, looping over the bridge of his nose. The second, nearly gets him in the eye. He opens his mouth then, catching the last spray across his tongue. Hawke hooks his thumb over the his jaw, keeping his mouth open, he can feel the head of the Champions cock, heavy and silken press against his tongue, stroking in tiny, restrained thrusts. A deep, and full-bodied sigh, and Hawke pulls back, collapsing on the bed beside him.

Anders swallows. Lifts a trembling had to his face to wipe the seed from his eyes. “Well… that went rather better than expected.”

“Oh? And how did you expect it to go?”

“Less sucking of my cock, for one thing.”

Hawke laughs,  _ Maker,  _ he does love the sound of that man’s laugh. He loves the taste of his kisses, too, and when Hawke rolls towards him, gathering him up into his arms, Anders leans forward, pressing his mouth against that wide, open smile.

Hawke kisses him for a long time. Tangles his hands in Ander’s hair. Traces his fingers against the dark stubble at the edge of his jaw. Then he pulls back, not just away, but off the bed entirely. “I’m going to talk to Fenris.” He says, hands on the fastenings on his breeches.

“You --  _ what?”  _ Anders blinks, sitting up. “Why?!”

The Champion raises his dark brows, expression eloquently incredulous.

“Well, don’t!” Anders sputters. “You can’t just -- he won’t --  _ Hawke there is come in your beard!” _

Hawke grins, makes a lazy swipe at his face -- the wrong side, and walks out of the room, stride long, and purposeful.

Anders gapes after him, horrified. The lazy, post-coitus warmth inside him, rolls over into something unsettled. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, waiting. Fingers tangling and untangling in the sheets imagining Fenris and Hawke’s encounter. Would there be anger? Derision? Broadswords swinging in defense of his honor? The Elf could easily put his fist somewhere it doesn’t belong… and, well… depending on  _ where _ he puts it -- like up Hawke’s ass -- it could possibly be a  _ completely different _ encounter, and --

The door to the small room opens.

Hawke is standing in the doorway, bulk nearly filling up the doorframe, but as he moves aside, a second figure steps up to the threshold, stopping just shy of entering. Fenris. He isn’t wearing his armor, just a dark tunic of suspect color, and black breeches. His hair looks a little damp, like it’s been freshly washed and combed.

Anders’ heart gives a little, ridiculous flutter to see the two of them, side by side. Both wearing slightly opaque expressions, both fixated entirely on  _ him. _

Hawke gives the other warrior a small shove, and with a small  _ huff _ of surprise, Fenris stumbles fully into the room, face flushing.

There’s heat on his own cheeks. “Fenris.” He says, heart bumping nervously.

The Elf smiles. Slow, and hesitant. Lips pulling back to show a small flash of white teeth. His voice is warm, and soft. “Anders.”

“Hawke!” Hawke says.


End file.
